


The Sorceress's Assassin

by Nvos



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Anal, Degradation, Dragon World Skin Verse, Explicit Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 10:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14591484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nvos/pseuds/Nvos
Summary: Khada Jhin, known dragoon conspirator with the Dragon Sorceress, decides to find what lies ahead on the other side in the Dragonmaster's Empire.





	The Sorceress's Assassin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoverbun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoverbun/gifts).



> Jhin is in his SKT outfit, as it's the closest lore-friendly skin for Dragon World. For hoverbun, an early birthday gift. Enjoy the smut, you fuck.

“For an inconsolable bastard, you do know how to make an entrance, _dragoon._ ”

  
“I wouldn’t chance you with anything less, _Dragonmaster._ ”

  
Swain grinned as if on instinct; somehow, Khada Jhin’s attempt to throw it back with his title sounded borderline endearing, a child mimicking that which he barely understood. It made for an amusing picture, what with knowing that this dragoon was no child and for he was here in full armor such that Swain wondered briefly if he came to execute him—he did not, but the thought remained just the same.

  
Swain was plain. “Well?”

  
Jhin’s silhouette bent forward from the darkness, his gold mask now cast by the flame. “Do you think me a messenger?”

  
“I know that you have your hands everywhere you shouldn’t, including that sorceress’s brassiere.”

  
They both laughed.

  
“Come now, Jericho. If it was by her word I came here, in the stink of night, I would’ve left you a note.” Jhin approached, twirling his crystalline rifle. The sight of it made Swain remember that, curiously, no-one but Jhin knew who created it; Swain had trouble believing it to be his own craft. Jhin was creative, sure, but a smithy? _Doubtful._

  
“No…” Jhin stopped on his heel at the helm of Swain’s throne. “I came here for you.”

  
“That’s delightfully vague.”

  
For a passing instant Swain could’ve sworn he heard a huff. He took it for motion to continue.

  
“If you want my audience, dragoon, and not me seeing where your neck splits from your shoulders for the intrusion, I would bet on dropping any charades.” He furrowed his brows. “Naught only a suggestion, of course.”

  
The rifle stopped spinning. Jhin holstered it, then gestured outward. “The Dragonslayers? Are they here?”

  
_What is he playing at?_

  
Swain stayed firm. “In chains. The Protectorate is no more. But your sorceress would have told you that already.”

  
Jhin’s hands clapped together. “What do you think on the subject of changing to a winning side, Dragonmaster?”

  
At once, his point seemed terribly obvious.

  
“Are you suggesting that you’ll betray her for me?”

  
“Does the notion anger?”

  
The furrowed brow went up a touch. “Don’t expect open arms for turncoats, especially that of half-breeds.”

  
“I’ve a tongue for negotiation,” he said after a beat, “All it takes is for you to lend an ear.”

  
“…” Swain considered his original neck-from-shoulder threat. Then, he listened.

 

* * *

 

  
His delivery was as poignant as it was straightforward.

  
“Strip.”

  
Swain watched as he obeyed, and noticed something.

  
Jhin possessed a figure that struck him as strange—not strange in the sense that it was somehow bizarre or odd to look at, but that it seemed at war with itself. He was lithe, not without musculature; he occupied a long shadow, but was effeminate—so much carried a “ _yes, but_ ” that in the nude, primp and underneath him, Swain was quicker to call him a member of the fae than of human or dragon kin. Perhaps that was simply the obscenity of half breeds.

  
Thinking the introspection concluded, Swain reached for his hair.

  
“Good.”

  
And pulled it back. Hard.

  
What was there appealed to him, the Dragonmaster decided. Underneath all that gold and crystal fanfare, Jhin had a long dark mane, two scowling blue eyes, and a permanent pout that Swain knew already that he was going to enjoy toying with far too much—What was that? A _whimper?_ —Swain grinned now, merciless. He was going to enjoy that, too.

  
“Where’s that moronic pride of yours, half-breed? Swallowed up by being in the intimate presence of your betters?”

  
Jhin tried to turn to face him, probably to hiss, but Swain held high and forced him to stay put.

  
“Or maybe this is how you entice me to accept you into my fold.” He leaned close, a mere breath between them. “A _wise strategy._ ”

  
Releasing his hair, respite was brief as Swain used his free arm to pin him down to the bed by the small of his back, chuckling when Khada Jhin appeared audibly winded. He seized the moment to steady himself behind him, ignoring vacant squirms as he inhaled and probed with the tip, prepared ever since Jhin landed on the duckfeather mattress.

  
It slipped in. Swain barely restrained himself from jeering that maybe he wasn’t the first—nor the fifth, judging by the ease of entry—to have Jhin like this. He took his elbow off of his back and gripped him shoulder by shoulder in both of his hands.

  
“How does it feel, half-breed? Silence is unbecoming of you.”

  
“A little early to sound triumphant, don’t you agree?”

  
Swain sneered. “Only a vision for what’s to come.”

  
It was in that moment that Swain passed the realization that Jhin was, almost literally, in the palm of his hand—he could do anything he wanted to him. Even now he considered killing him. The half-breed, as far as anyone knew, was a tool of the sorceress. In the time of the Protectorate, he singlehandedly put a crystalline bullet in the hearts of several past Dragonslayers. Now, in the time of Swain’s draconic empire, he was an open end, a loose key. And be it anything that deserved cutting, it would be hanging threads.

  
But Jhin was warm. He fit well. Swain figured he could delay the judgment until after they were through—he began to pump.

  
Jhin, the Dragomaster discovered, was also very vocal.

  
_Typical of someone with such a cutting tongue._ Not that Swain complained.

  
Carrying such a gigantic frame, he could make Jhin all but disappear to an outside observer, Jhin’s height useless against Swain’s sheer girth both in stature and… stature more figurative. He preferred it that way—the smaller they looked when pinned below him, the cuter the expression when he started to play into a consistent rhythm.

  
Just as he predicted, the pout riding Jhin’s features began to bend. Then it broke.

  
“Moaning already?” Swain harrumphed. “Maybe you have a purpose for me after all.”

  
The first were halfway stifled on Jhin’s part—he didn’t waste the energy on the latter. Swain liked that. Meant that his pride was not so total (at least in the presence of the Dragonmaster) that he couldn’t admit defeat where it was obvious. Clinging for purchase on the sheets, Khada Jhin found none. There was only him, the Dragonmaster, and the rolling of hips that collided with him like a draconic avalanche on every thrust.

  
Swain’s heavy voice droned above. “You fit me as well as some of the more lecherous Dragonslayers, half-breed.” His Hand drifted from shoulder to Jhin’s neck. “Is that what you’re meant for? Insidious, bastard half-breeds meant for chasing the bedroom attention of their superiors?”

  
He squeezed. “Admit it.”

  
Jhin moaned. Swain squeezed harder. “ _Go on._ ” He was slamming into him now, precision melding with savagery.

  
Weakly, a voice.

  
“I am meant for… oh…”

  
_Thump. Thump. Thump._ Even the strong mahogany of the headboard groaned.

  
“I am meant for… the use of my betters,” the voice managed, no louder than a wheeze.

  
It was as if a switch was flipped. Swain rumbled, then roared, taking Jhin by the hips to use the newfound leverage to plunge into him with so much might, so much strength, that it took holding him to keep him from launching forward.

  
“ _That’s right._ ” The throaty candor of a wizened wyvern growing his hoard. “You’re useless unless below me. Useless unless _obeying_ me. Acting as if that rifle or tongue of yours gives you any credence, when it’s _this_ that does… _typical_! Admit it!”

  
Jhin’s face was now a puzzle of crinkled eyes and a gaping mouth, moans stumbling from his lips as a drunkard to the alley. It was too much. But it wasn’t enough. It was too much. But it wasn’t enough, never enough, Swain had to have it all, he had to have everything…

  
“I’m useless,” Jhin stammered. “Use _less,_ ” he half-moaned. “Oh…”

  
Swain continued to thunder into him, the entire bed shuddering on impact after impact.

  
“Worthless half-breed,” he spat. “This is what abominations deserve!”

  
And then, the rush. The fervor. The tidal wave of a pleasure so wrought in primordial lust that even the Dragonmaster found himself possessed. Nothing else mattered but the hole he was currently on the brink of ruining. Nothing else mattered but that stupid, brazen little look on Khada Jhin’s red-as-a-cherry face. The sorceress? Her assassin belonged only _to him_. Jhin obeyed. Jhin understood his purpose. No rifles, no witty jabs—a _sleeve_ for the Dragonmaster to wear.

  
He had to claim him. He had to make it _permanent_. Swain reeled back, no longer hearing the chorus of moans beneath him, and slammed forward with one last, final blow, Jhin now simply a receptacle to receive what was exploding through him. He held that position, cradling the half-breed in his claws, for what felt like an eternity. He could have sworn that he saw his abdomen bulge with the weight.  
When Swain opened his eyes, he smiled as if on instinct.

  
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll keep you, Khada Jhin.”


End file.
